


One More For the Road

by jane_with_a_j



Series: Life on Earth [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23605687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_with_a_j/pseuds/jane_with_a_j
Summary: The End Times have arrived.  Soon the world will end in fire and flame, and a war to end all wars.And somewhere on Earth are an angel and a demon who are not looking forward to it.No, not that angel and demon.Turns out, there are others.
Series: Life on Earth [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699099
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	One More For the Road

**Author's Note:**

> So, who's feeling a bit self-indulgent in these times? I know I am.
> 
> So please enjoy this prequel of sorts to When We Find There's Life on Earth After All, in which we see more of Saranel, and find out who she is and why it is that she felt she owed Aziraphale a favour.
> 
> Rated T because Saranel tends to swear when she's frustrated.

2008

Portsmouth, New Hampshire, U.S.A.

The angel sat on a bench, sipping coffee from a to-go cup, watching the boats pass by in the harbour. Her name was Saranel, she was a Principality, and she was waiting for someone. She crossed long, black-clad legs at the ankles and leaned back, one bare arm draped over the back of the bench. She checked her watch. He was late.

Her coffee was gone by the time he arrived, dropping gracelessly onto the bench beside her. She gave him a sidelong look, not fully turning to face him. He looked the same as he always did, the same as he had for well over a century now. Well-worn brown boots, salt-stained canvas work pants, and a black t-shirt whose short sleeves were his only concession to the late summer heat. With his callused hands and weathered skin, he looked like a caricature of an old-timey fisherman, the only clue to his inhuman nature the oily black feathers that peeked out from under his knit stocking cap where hair should have been.

“So,” said Saranel. “What was so urgent that I had to drive up here from Boston on a Tuesday morning?”

“You like driving.”

She turned, narrowing silver eyes at him. “Not on a Tuesday morning, I don't.”

“Perfect weather for that flashy little car of yours.”

“You've never seen my car.”

Her companion raised an eyebrow. “So you're saying you don't have a flashy little car? You went for something nice and sedate this decade? Grey midsize sedan? Beige station wagon? It's a beige station wagon, isn't it?”

Saranel huffed. “You said it was urgent. But apparently not so urgent that you couldn't get your shit together and get here at the time we'd talked about?” It was an old argument, one of many that had grown up over the years, taking the place of the actual physical fighting the two of them had engaged in, once upon a time.

“I'm a demon,” said her companion. “It's in my nature. Always late, unless you're hosting a dinner party, in which case I'm half an hour early and expecting to be entertained from the moment I walk through the door.” He flashed her a half-hearted grin that didn't touch his eyes.

“You're the one who's been living here,” said Saranel.

“Not for much longer, I don't think,” said the demon, whose name was Sanctus. (She had asked him about the name, once. It wasn't his original name, obviously, nor was it the name he'd been given after the Fall. Apparently, it wasn't uncommon for demons to change their names. But _Sanctus?_ He'd shrugged and said that he liked the irony of it, and anyway, it wasn't as if anyone on this continent spoke any Latin at the time he'd chosen it.)

“Heading back north again?” Saranel had always liked city life – the bigger and noisier and more modern they got, the more she liked them. Sanctus, on the other hand, was never happier than when he was alone, without a living thing for miles but the shorebirds and the fish. Hard to do any proper demonic wiling in the middle of nowhere, though, so he generally moved around among cities like this one for a few years at a time before retreating to the edge of the wilderness to recharge.

For a long moment, Sanctus didn't say anything.

“What is it?” Saranel asked, genuinely worried for the first time now.

“The end of the world,” said Sanctus.

“What?”

“I had to go Downstairs yesterday,” said Sanctus. “Reports to file. It was right chaotic down there, even more so than usual.” He picked at a spot on his knee. “They were preparing for something. Something big.” He turned his head and met her eyes. “A birth.”

Saranel blinked once, then again. The world around them seemed to have gone silent.

“You don't mean–”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Not sure. Soon, though. It may have already happened.”

Saranel's head was spinning. “Where? Who...?”

“I don't know,” said Sanctus. “They weren't exactly sharing the details.”

“And you're telling me this ... why?” Saranel didn't want to think about what Hell would do to Sanctus if they knew he'd shared this information with an angel. They had developed a tentative friendship, over the years, from a shared desire to dispense with the hassle of constantly requesting new bodies after yet another discorporation, but neither of them had any illusions about the fact that they were on opposite sides.

“Why do you think?” Sanctus asked, rolling his eyes. He turned away from her, fixing his gaze on the busy channel in front of them. “No boats or sunrises over the ocean or quiet corners for reading in Hell,” he said. “And no fast cars or Italian coffee or kung fu movies in Heaven, either.”

Saranel swore. “What do you expect me to do about it?” she asked.

“Tell someone,” said Sanctus. “Aren't your people supposed to be all about protecting and guarding humanity?”

Saranel snorted. “ _My people_ are all about winning, same as yours.” She crumpled her empty coffee cup in her fist. “I suppose stopping the apocalypse might count as winning,” she acknowledged.

“Just remember,” said Sanctus, “if we do end up meeting on the battlefield,” his eyes crinkled into something resembling a smile, “and if you manage to get lucky and discorporate me...”

In a flash, Saranel saw where he was going with this, and barely restrained an urge to swat him. “This is not the time for–”

“...I'll still be up, eighty-seven to eighty-two.”

“It'll be eighty-three if I take you out on the battlefield,” Saranel grumbled.

“Either way,” said Sanctus, a hint of a genuine grin curling the edge of his lip. “I'll still come out the winner.”

“It's not a contest!”

“You only say that because you lost.”

“We agreed to stop–”

Sanctus crooked an eyebrow at her. “And you think that if we hadn't, you'd have caught up by now?”

“This is serious!”

“I know.” And suddenly, all of the humour was gone from the demon's voice.

“Fine,” Saranel said. “I'll talk to Michael.”

“Thank you,” said Sanctus.

“See if you can find anything else out,” she said. “A name, a location. A hint as to who on your side might be overseeing all of this.” She stood up and brushed imaginary dust off her black jeans. “And, Sanctus?”

“Yeah?”

“Don't let them find out what you're up to.”

“Obviously,” the demon replied.

\--

2008

Heaven

Saranel would never have admitted it to anyone, but she hated Heaven. It was too empty, too open, too stark. Sound carried and echoed in unnerving ways. There was no colour, no movement. Also, nowhere to sit while waiting for a meeting. She leaned awkwardly against a pillar, wishing she had something to do with her hands. At least in a meeting in some sterile office tower on Earth, she could have brought a coffee with her.

Saranel was an angel, and angels do not commit murder over material objects, but she really did think she could kill for a decent Caffè Americano right about now.

The click-click-click of shoes, echoing on the hard, shiny floor, alerted her to the fact that she wasn't alone. She straightened, ran a hand through her long, black hair, and wondered whether she should have changed her clothes for something more _angelic_ than her usual black-jeans-black-tank-top look. Her silver winged-sword pendant was, technically, pretty angelic, but paired with the black clothes, it looked more gothy than anything else, not that anyone could reasonably expect an Archangel to pick up on that, and why the Hell was she worrying so much about her outfit right now? She took a deep breath that her body did not need, but her mind did, and turned to face–

 _Two_ Archangels.

Eep.

She had asked Michael for a meeting; she was used to Michael. She hadn't expected Gabriel.

Saranel was tall. Gabriel was taller. Both Archangels were impeccably dressed in soft grey suits, Michael's with accents in soft pink and gold, Gabriel's in cool lavender and blue. They wore identical expressions of serene, confident authority.

Saranel was a Principality, a warrior and a guardian, with multiple commendations to her name. She felt like a schlubby teenager standing in front of a set of particularly demanding parents.

“We received your message, Saranel,” said Michael. “You have important information?”

Saranel squared her shoulders. “Yes,” she said. “I ... you know that I've maintained contacts in ... occult circles, down on Earth.”

Gabriel's eyebrows drew down disapprovingly. Maybe he hadn't known. Wouldn't Michael have told him?

It was even true. Not that the occult dabblers ever had any useful intelligence, but it provided a good cover for the rare occasion when she needed to explain how she'd gotten some bit of information.

“Go on,” said Michael, her expression unreadable.

“Right,” said Saranel. “Mostly, they've not been as useful as we might have hoped.” She raised her eyebrows and flashed the Archangels an attempt at a wry grin. “I think the Opposition are a bit embarrassed by them, to be honest. But every now and then...”

Michael and Gabriel didn't say a word, just stared at her with matching get-to-the-point looks.

“There's been buzz,” she said.

Michael raised a perfect eyebrow. “Buzz?”

“Rumours. Talk. They're saying that the Antichrist has been born. Or will be, very soon. A matter of days, not years.”

Michael glanced at Gabriel, then back at Saranel, appraisingly. “And you find these rumours to be ... credible?”

“Yes,” said Saranel.

“Why?”

And, ah, that was the question, wasn't it? “Multiple sources,” Saranel lied. “Sources who've never agreed on anything before now. All saying the same thing.”

“Do you have any more information?” Gabriel asked.

“I ... no. Not yet.” Saranel fingered her pendant, rubbing the cool silver between her thumb and forefinger for a moment, until she noticed the way Michael was watching her hands. She stilled. “I can keep digging, though,” she added.

Gabriel and Michael looked at each other again. Something seemed to pass between them.

“We have information,” said Gabriel finally, “that would seem to support what you're telling us.”

Saranel forgot to breathe. “You do,” she said.

“We do,” said Gabriel.

“Do you know anything more?”

“Nothing that you need to know about,” said Michael.

“I'm a Principality,” said Saranel. “It's my job to protect the Earth. If–”

“Your devotion to your duty is admirable,” said Gabriel. “But none of the information we have suggests that anything of significance will be happening in your territory.”

“So you already know where the child is,” said Saranel slowly. “Or, where the child will be?”

“Don't think your information isn't helpful!” Gabriel's smile was all teeth. “You've given us additional evidence of what we already suspected.”

“I should be helping,” said Saranel.

“You will,” said Gabriel.

“But for now,” said Michael, “we have the appropriate people monitoring the situation.”

“But–” Saranel's protest was cut short by Gabriel, enthusiastically – and a bit painfully – clapping her on the shoulder.

“Such dedication!” he exclaimed. “That's what we like to see!”

“Right,” said Saranel. “I really do think that I–”

“You will be called when you're needed,” said Michael.

“Can you at least tell me–”

Gabriel _tsk_ ed. “I'm sure you understand,” he said. “We're keeping this as quiet as possible until we know more.” He smiled again, a blinding-bright thing. “If you hear anything else, please bring it to us, and...” he gave her a conspiratorial little wink, “keep it to yourself, otherwise?”

“Right.” Saranel knew a dismissal when she heard one. She nodded respectfully, first to Michael, then to Gabriel. “Thank you for your time.”

She turned and walked away, not looking back. On the surface, that conversation had gone as well as it could have gone. The Archangels were aware of the danger, and were already taking steps to deal with it.

So why did she feel like something was terribly wrong?

\--

2013

Toronto, Ontario, Canada

Saranel had spent the past five years feeling restless, unable to stay in one place for very long. She'd left Boston only a few short months after learning about the impending arrival of the Antichrist, and bounced around from place to place ever since. She'd spent eight months holed up in Quebec City, then a little over a year in Philadelphia, before drifting down to Savannah for a bit, and then to D.C. and finally ending up here, pretending to be a cousin of the house's actual absentee owner and living in the basement. As basement apartments went, it was a decent one. Well-lit, with a full bathroom and kitchen area, a private entrance, and plenty of space. Even so, she was beginning to think that it would have been better to arrange a living situation with a bit more privacy. She joined her upstairs neighbours for meals once in a while – they were such nice kids, nursing students from George Brown, and really, it would have been rude not to – but it always left her feeling uncomfortable.

She put the kettle on to boil. As the familiar, comforting sound of her high-end electric coffee grinder filled the room, she glanced over at the collection of weapons on display on the far wall. These days, being an angel on Earth meant mostly blessings and light miracles, with the occasional assignment to infiltrate the life of some potentially important person in order to influence them toward the Light. Not a lot of physical fighting anymore. But her role was to be a warrior, and even today, she took it seriously. Not that her most important weapon was here. Her angelic sword was safely stowed away on another plane of existence. These weapons were earthly things. Gabriel had asked her, more than once, why she bothered with them. A foolish question, not that she would ever dare to say so. Michael, at least, had seemed to approve.

Just as the coffee grinder fell silent, she felt a buzz in her back pocket. With a sigh, she pulled out her phone. Only a handful of people had this number, so who–?

 _Answer the phone Sara_ read the display. She rolled her eyes. Somehow, Sanctus kept managing to change his entry on her contact list. She kept changing it back to something along the lines of _Annoying demon_ , but her changes never stuck.

“What?” She never bothered with a greeting, not when it was him.

“I thought you said you took care of things, Upstairs,” said Sanctus, without preamble.

“What are you talking about?” The kettle was whistling as the water came to a boil. She unplugged it and set it aside while she pulled the french press from the cupboard.

“I just came back from another meeting with Head Office,” said Sanctus.

“Uh huh,” said Saranel. She stared at her coffee grinder for a moment, then, deciding against any attempts at one-handed coffee ground wrangling, used a quick miracle to transfer the grounds to the coffee maker.

“I overheard something I don't think I was supposed to hear,” the demon went on. “About the Antichrist.”

“Oh,” said Saranel, falling very still.

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” said Sanctus.

“Shit,” said Saranel, as years of repressed and unnamed fears came crashing down on her. She turned and leaned against the wall. It was possible, she supposed, that some sort of plan was in motion that she didn't know about. It was also possible that Heaven really did just want another war. “What did you hear?”

“It seems,” said Sanctus, “that the boy is alive and well and, and I quote, 'fantastically evil.'”

Saranel looked back over at her collection of weapons. She didn't say a word.

“They're not going to try to stop it, are they?” asked Sanctus.

“I don't know.” Saranel's voice was very small. “I told you, Michael and Gabriel wouldn't tell me anything. But...”

“But they care about winning, same as my side.” Sanctus huffed into the phone. “You said it yourself.”

“Should we ... do something?”

“Like what?”

“I don't know.” Saranel pressed a hand to her forehead. “This is all supposed to happen,” she said. “Even if we could stop it, I don't know if we _should_. Your side's been working toward this since you all Fell, and as for my side...”

“Divine plan?”

“Divine plan.”

“You really think your side is going to win?”

“We have to,” said Saranel. “I mean, no offence, but can you imagine a world where your side won? Ugh.”

“Can you imagine a world where _your_ side won?”

“Lesser of two – um.” She stood there, listening to the silence at the other end of the line. “What if we just ... dug around a bit?”

“What?”

“We could gather some information. On our own. We don't have to do anything with it. Did you find out anything more concrete when you were down there?”

Sanctus didn't answer immediately, and for a moment, she wondered if he was still on the call.

“There was one thing,” he said.

“What?”

“Crowley's involved.”

The name was familiar. “The M25 guy?” Sanctus had been more than a little impressed by the idea of using demonic influence to mess with road networks. He'd also been more than a little put out when his meddling with Quebec Route 138 hadn't garnered the same kinds of accolades as Crowley's work on the M25 in London.

Sanctus grumbled an affirmative.

“He still in England?”

“As far as I know.”

Saranel twisted her fingers in the hem of her shirt. “Maybe it's time I paid a visit to Aziraphale,” she said.

\--

2013

London, England

The place hadn't changed.

Saranel had been to meet with Aziraphale on his home turf only once before, nearly two hundred years ago. The bookshop that he used as his home base in London looked exactly the same today as it had then. A few of the flyers and bits of art in the window were (comparatively) new, and the paint was a bit faded, but otherwise it was identical.

The neighbourhood around it had changed, as urban landscapes tend to do, but the bookshop was like an island in time.

She allowed herself to relax a bit. Aziraphale had always been personable enough, if a bit twitchy. He was the type to get nervous at the prospect of breaking the rules, which meant that if he had been told not to share any information with her, he almost certainly wouldn't. But he'd be nice about it. Probably offer her a cup of cocoa.

The door was closed and locked. Saranel peered through a window. Inside, shafts of sunlight illuminated piles of books and drifting dust. Everything was still.

“I wouldn't bother,” came a voice from behind her. She turned to see a middle-aged man in black jeans and a canvas jacket, watching her with a rueful smile. “Place hasn't been open for months. Old Fell always kept odd hours anyway, but he seems to have gone off on one of his extended holidays.”

Saranel smiled awkwardly back at the man.

“He didn't leave a sign or anything, saying when he'd be back?”

“Nah,” said the man. “He never does. Shame for you to miss it, really,” he went on. “Lots of interesting old bookshops in London, but this is one of the best. Provided you don't actually want to buy anything, of course.”

“Hm,” said Saranel.

“Well,” said the man, recognizing her dismissal for what it was, “must be off. Better luck next time.” And with a nod and a smile, he headed off down the street.

Saranel considered the locked door. With a quick miracle to make sure no one else would spot her, she laid a hand against the old wood, feeling for wards. There were a few, but nothing particularly powerful. Not even the usual protective charms against demons, she noted. She shut her eyes for a moment. The lock clicked, and she pushed the door open.

There was no one there. She did a quick circuit of the main room, peering into nooks and alcoves and the cozy little back room.

Aziraphale could, she supposed, just be out somewhere. He'd been on Earth a long time, much longer than she had. Long enough, she knew, to have developed a taste for any number of human things, including food and drink. He might have just ... popped off to the bakery or something.

Somehow, though, she didn't think that was the case. The man on the street had said that the shop hadn't opened its doors in months. There was a feeling about a place when it had been sitting unused for some time, a feeling Saranel knew well from moving around her various homes. The bookshop had it.

Aziraphale was gone.

Saranel cursed under her breath. She stood there, looking helplessly around the room, wishing that there were something here she could just ... smite or something. She pulled her phone out of a back pocket that should have been too small to hold it, and punched in a familiar number.

Sanctus was holed up in some remote seaside village with no cell service. That didn't stop the call from connecting.

“Sara.”

“I'm in London,” she said. “At the bookshop.”

Through the phone, a sigh of envy. “Does he still have that collection of misprinted Bibles?” Sanctus asked.

“I assume so,” said Saranel. She looked around the room, silently willing something, anything, to change. “He isn't here.”

“Any sign of where he went?”

“Maybe.” Aziraphale evidently hadn't cleaned before he'd left, and in the piles of clutter, she couldn't even begin to think of where she might start looking for clues. “I'll ... take a look around, I guess. See if I can find anything.”

“You do that.”

“Goodbye, Sanctus.” Saranel made a face at her phone, which of course the demon couldn't see, before disconnecting.

Well, fuck.

She looked around. The desk seemed as likely a place as any to start. As she sifted through stacks of books and piles of paper, she was grateful not to have any normal human reflexes. The dust would have had her sneezing uncontrollably, otherwise.

“Saranel.”

Saranel froze. She took a breath and reminded herself that her heart didn't actually need to beat, and it was just fine that it had literally stopped.

How had she not sensed the arrival of an Archangel, of all beings?

She plastered a smile on her face and turned around.

“Michael,” she said.

“What are you doing here?” Michael asked. The Archangel was impeccable, as always – her hair perfectly coiffed, her voice cool and steady, her suit a perfect fit, right down to the improbable cascades of lace at her collar and cuffs. Saranel straightened her shoulders and tried to relax her expression.

“I,” she said. “I was looking for Aziraphale.”

Michael tipped her head to the side, just a bit, before speaking.

“Why?” she asked.

“Nothing official,” said Saranel. “He. Um.” Dammit, she should have thought of a reason for being here before actually coming. “He's spent a lot of time studying prophecies,” she blurted. “I wanted his opinion on some rumours I had heard.”

“What kind of rum–?”

“But he wasn't answering his phone,” Saranel continued, hoping to forestall any questions. “And there wasn't a lot happening back home, so I thought, well, I hadn't been to this side of the world in a while, so–”

“You shouldn't be here, Saranel,” said Michael.

“I know, I know, I have my own territory to protect, but in the old days we used to travel around a lot more, and I thought–”

“If you were looking for information about the progress of Armageddon,” said Michael, “I can assure you, you will be told everything that you need to know when you need to know it.”

“Armageddon,” said Saranel. For a moment, she considered trying to sound surprised, like the thought hadn't even crossed her mind. A waste of time with Michael, she knew. There was a reason that Michael oversaw all of Heaven's intelligence gathering. She was shrewd, and she was observant, and she was not easily fooled. “So this _is_ where it's happening, then? And Aziraphale is involved?”

Michael blinked once, and then smiled. It was a kindly, benevolent sort of smile on the surface, but there was no mistaking the jagged ice underneath.

“Go home, Saranel,” said Michael.

“I–”

“That's an order.”

And so Saranel went. What else could she do?

\--

2013

Tête-à-la-Baleine, Quebec, Canada

“So you got nothing.”

Saranel stared levelly at Sanctus over the glass of Screech the demon had given her. It was vile stuff, but she'd badly needed a drink, and it was the only alcohol he ever kept on hand when he was living in his rickety old boat.

“I got nothing,” she said finally. “An indirect confirmation that _something_ is happening in England, at best.”

“So now what?”

“Now ... nothing.” She had thought it over on the way back from London. Over, and over, and over. “I'm a soldier, Sanctus. And I have my orders.” She knocked back half the contents of her glass in one go. “I expect you do, too. Or you will, soon.”

They sat in silence, then, avoiding each other's eyes.

“Well, then,” said Sanctus. He stood up and pulled something out from under the couch – a spear. A beautiful old spear, well over 1000 years old, carved from wood and ivory. Beautiful, and deadly. That spear had sent Saranel back to Head Office in need of a new body dozens of times, back before they'd called their truce.

She set down her glass, stood slowly, and flicked her wrist. Her own favourite weapon, a 600-year-old steel _jian_ , appeared in her hand.

“No one gets discorporated,” she said.

“Just a bit of friendly sparring,” said Sanctus.

“We'll have to go to shore,” said Saranel. “Not enough room to fight properly in this old tub.”

Sanctus raised his spear, pointing it directly at her face.

“You watch what you say about my boat,” he said.

Saranel stared at the jagged spearhead for a second, then, with a single quick movement, flicked up her sword and swatted it away.

Sanctus grinned at her, the first genuine smile she'd seen on his face all day.

Saranel grinned back at him, but her smile was tinged with sadness. She was going to miss this.

\--

2019

New York, New York, USA

In the end, Saranel was alone when the trumpets sounded. Her restlessness had disappeared after London, replaced by a dull, lethargic sort of melancholy. She had retreated to her New York brownstone, her favourite of all her various homes, and tried to continue her work. If Michael had noticed a drop in her productivity over the past six years, she hadn't said anything.

Sanctus had called, every so often. Most times, she had stared at the phone for a long while before setting it down, turning away, letting the call go to a voicemail she never checked. Talking to him never helped, anyway.

More than once, she had picked up the phone with the intention to call Aziraphale, but she always put the phone back down before she had finished dialing the number. The one and only time she'd actually completed the call, the other Principality hadn't answered. The phone had just rung, and rung, and rung.

She kept up her weapons training – increased it, in fact. It was one of the few things she could bring herself to do that actually felt productive. Not that she would be using any of these Earthly weapons in the war to come, but keeping up the practice was good for her nonetheless. And maybe, she thought, as she snapped her _tie shan_ shut, she'd be able to conceal one of the smaller weapons somewhere about her person, just in case something happened to her sword.

She set the folding fan down on a side table and grabbed the half-empty bottle that was sitting there. It wasn't a high-end single malt, or a craft beer, or one of the rich, dark, red wines that she favoured. It was Screech. She took a swig, straight from the bottle, grimaced, and plunked it back down. She looked from the weapon to the bottle, and back again. The fan was an old one, its decoration only slightly faded, its blades still razor sharp. Combining weapons training with booze was probably not a good idea. _Pick one_ , she told herself. _Forget your troubles by throwing yourself into training, or by getting drunk. Not both._

In the end, she did neither. Instead, she walked over to the window and looked out at the world going by. That was where she was standing when the trumpets sounded, calling all of Heaven's soldiers to war. She took one last slug from the bottle before she went.

2019

Heaven

She had forgotten what it was like to wear a uniform, and this one was the absolute worst. A cream and tan kilt? Ugh. She wished that there was someone, anyone, here that she could bitch to about it. Anything to forget the reason why she was wearing it. But no, everyone around her looked very serious, very much committed to the battle ahead. Standing at the head of her platoon, Saranel flexed her fingers around the grip of her sword. This was happening. It was happening, and she was going to have to throw everything she had into it, because the only thing worse than fighting this war would be fighting it and losing.

Something in the air changed. She peered out across the ranks of fully armed and battle-ready angels to where she could, distantly, see Gabriel conferring with Michael. This was it, she thought. Time to go. But then, in a crackle of light, Gabriel was gone. A murmur swept through the massed angelic army. Heads turned, eyes met, questioning glances were exchanged. This wasn't how it was supposed to go, but no one was quite able to say so. Saranel straightened her shoulders and waited.

And waited.

The murmur grew louder, military discipline wavering even as the ranking Archangels cast stern looks out over the crowd. Saranel glanced over to her left and caught the eye of another angel – Daniel, she thought his name was. He raised a questioning eyebrow at her. She gave a little shrug.

They continued to wait.

Saranel wasn't sure how much time passed before Gabriel finally reappeared. Even at this distance, he looked rattled. His hair was in disarray, his hands gesturing wildly as he spoke to Michael and Uriel.

The murmur intensified, growing into a din of voices. Something had gone wrong. Something had changed.

By the time the official announcement was made, Saranel had already sheathed her sword and was pushing her way back through the increasingly disordered ranks.

The world wasn't ending.

The war was off.

She was going home.

\--

2020

London, England

“We're sure about this?”

Saranel couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Sanctus looking so nervous.

“I thought this was something you'd always wanted to do,” she teased. Sanctus's wish to see the angel Aziraphale's collection of books had been a vain wish, for a demon. Or so they had always assumed.

“What if we're wrong?” Both Heaven and Hell had been sketchy on the details of what, exactly, had gone wrong with the plans for the apocalypse. If Sanctus and Saranel hadn't already known that Crowley and Aziraphale were involved, they wouldn't have known where to start digging for information.

“We're not wrong,” said Saranel. “You know we're not.” She turned and looked Sanctus square in the eye. “This is the least we can do now.”

“The _least_ we can do is nothing,” said Sanctus.

“You don't want that,” said Saranel.

“No,” said Sanctus. “I suppose I don't.” He pushed forward, opening the door to the bookshop and stepping in ahead of Saranel.

He hadn't gone three steps past the threshold when he stopped dead, abruptly enough that Saranel bumped into him.

“Stop,” said an unfamiliar voice.

“I already stopped,” said Sanctus. His tone was affable, bordering on mocking, but he held both hands up, and there was no mistaking the tension in his shoulders.

“We were very clear,” said the voice. “We are _both_ to be left alone. I suggest you forget whatever it is you're thinking of doing, turn around, and leave.”

Saranel leaned over to peer around Sanctus's broad back. Her gaze immediately fell on a face she recognized. Aziraphale, dressed in a tan suit, with a worn waistcoat and tartan bowtie, a stern expression in his blue-grey eyes. Standing in front of him, a tall, lanky figure, all in black, with a shock of dark red hair and a pair of very expensive-looking sunglasses covering his eyes. The demon Crowley, she thought. It must be. Crowley's stance was protective, his lip curled in a snarl.

It was a dangerous moment – if the rumours she'd unearthed were true, these two had developed abilities no angel or demon was ever meant to have – but all Saranel could feel was a sense of satisfaction. She and Sanctus had been right.

“Hi, Aziraphale,” she said, giving a little wave.

A flash of surprise across the other angel's face, a frown of consternation, and then a softening of his features.

“Saranel?”

“Been a while,” said Saranel.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “I suppose it has. What are you doing here? And who...?” His gaze flicked over to Sanctus's face, briefly.

“This is Sanctus,” said Saranel, elbowing the demon aside to step in front of him. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I know,” she said. “Weird name for a demon.”

“What do you want?” growled Crowley.

“We came to talk to you,” said Saranel. “Both of you, actually. You're Crowley, I assume?” The other demon gave a terse nod. Saranel responded with a pleasant smile before turning back to Aziraphale. “Also,” she said, “Sanctus here has heard of you and your book collection. He's been dying to get a look at it for years.”

“Really?” said Aziraphale. His expression was guarded, but Saranel thought she detected a bit of professional pride in his voice.

“Is it true you've got a Buggre-All-This Bible?” asked Sanctus.

“As a matter of fact,” Aziraphale began–

“Angel–”

“Oh, come now, Crowley. These two have come all this way, _together_. We could at least hear what they have to say.” The two of them stared at each other for a long moment, some unspoken communication passing between them. Finally, Crowley threw up his hands.

“Fine,” he said. “But if they try anything...”

“Hellfire and holy water,” said Aziraphale soothingly.

“What?” said Sanctus.

“You heard me,” said Aziraphale. He stared at the newcomers, and for just a second, there was cold, hard steel in his gaze. Then it was gone, and the angel was smiling warmly at them. “Would either of you care for a cup of tea?”

The explanations took a while. Crowley, in particular, was very much uninterested in answering any questions, or confirming any of what Saranel and Sanctus had surmised. It didn't matter. It wasn't that Saranel wasn't interested in finding out what had really happened, it was just that she was more interested in telling Aziraphale her own thoughts. That he had been right, to do whatever it was he had done. That she, at least, and Sanctus, were grateful.

At one point, Aziraphale got up abruptly from the table where they'd been sitting and turned away. When Saranel got up to follow him, she suddenly found herself face-to-face with Crowley, who had taken off his sunglasses and was glaring at her with yellow, reptilian eyes.

“I'm not going to try anything,” she said.

Crowley continued to glare at her, then stepped aside and let her pass. As she did, she could have sworn she heard him hiss.

She approached the other angel slowly. “Aziraphale,” she said, reaching out and not quite touching his arm. “You okay?”

Aziraphale didn't turn around. When he spoke, his voice was thick.

“I thought I was the only one,” he said. “I thought that all of Heaven...”

“I know,” said Saranel. “I thought the same thing.” An awkward pause. “It's a shame I never managed to talk to you, all that time.”

When Aziraphale turned around, his face was composed, but there was a tightness around the corners of his mouth.

“I'm sorry,” said Saranel.

“You're–”

“I'm sorry I didn't try harder. I'm sorry I...” she paused. Swallowed. “Sorry I gave up.” She couldn't meet Aziraphale's gaze. “If it had been left up to me, we wouldn't be standing here. All of this would be gone. I couldn't ... I didn't ...”

A long silence. Then, “I know what Heaven is like,” Aziraphale said.

“But you did the right thing anyway.” Saranel's hands fluttered uselessly at her sides. “It's not just me. I've been looking, now that it's over. Talking to people. There are more angels than you'd think who aren't at all sorry the war didn't happen.” She glanced up. Aziraphale's expression was unreadable. “But none of us did _anything_ to stop it. And I'm sorry for that. You shouldn't have had to carry it all alone.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “When you come down to it, I wasn't alone.” His gaze shifted to a point somewhere behind her, where they'd left the two demons, and the tension seemed to drain from him. “If I'd really been alone, I could never have done it.” A fond smile spread across his face. “It's really Crowley who deserves your thanks.”

Saranel risked a brief glance over her shoulder. Crowley had returned to the table, and was alternating between glaring at her, glaring at Sanctus, and casting worried looks at Aziraphale. There was something about the way the two of them had been looking at each other that made her wonder...

“So,” she said. “Crowley. Are you two...?”

“To be perfectly honest,” said Aziraphale, “I'm not sure what we are.” His smile changed then, into something a little brighter. “But I must admit, I'm looking forward to finding out.”

“Ah,” said Saranel, because what else was there to say about that? “Listen,” she said. “I know that Michael would never say it. Gabriel either. Or any of them. But you really might be the best of us.”

Aziraphale looked genuinely taken aback by that.

“My dear girl, that's kind of you to say, but–”

“It's true,” said Saranel. “And what I really came here to say was... if you ever need anything. If you ever need anyone else on your side. I...” She trailed off. She'd come all this way, given so much thought to what she wanted to say, and now, none of it seemed adequate.

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale. “I'll keep that in mind.” He looked again over her shoulder to where the two demons were still sitting. “I think we'd best go and check on our counterparts,” he said.

Saranel turned. Crowley was glaring intensely at Sanctus, who was staring back at him with that irritatingly blank expression he was so good at.

“Sanctus,” said Aziraphale. “Would you like to see my collection of misprinted Bibles?”

Sanctus looked up, startled, and then nodded. His eyes were wide as saucers. He glanced back at Crowley. Saranel slid into the seat beside him.

“So,” she said to Crowley, ignoring the intense side-eye he gave her. “Is that your car parked out front?”

“Yup,” said Crowley.

“What is it, a 1926?”

Crowley snorted. “'33,” he said.

“It's gorgeous,” said Saranel. “You've taken good care of it.”

Crowley's eyes narrowed. “If you're trying to butter me up by complimenting my car–”

“And what if I am?”

Crowley stared at her, unblinking. Saranel stared back.

“Well,” said Crowley, finally. “There's at least a chance it might work.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1- A geography note. Quebec Route 138 is a highway that - in theory - runs from the border with New York State, along the north shore of the St. Lawrence River, all the way to the border with Labrador. In fact, it dead-ends in Kegaska, eventually reappearing 375 km east in Old Fort, leaving all of the villages in between (including Tête-à-la-Baleine, in case you were wondering) completely inaccessible by road. There's been noise, on and off, over the years, about finishing the road. Projects have been started and never completed. The affected villages are too small and too remote to draw the kind of attention that messing with a major urban highway would draw. That was clearly Sanctus's mistake.
> 
> 2- Many apologies to lovers of Screech. I've never much cared for rum, so I have no basis to say whether the stuff is any good or not, though I know it has its fans. But, let's be honest here. Sanctus's stash of Screech isn't the stuff you find at the liquor store. He's definitely stocking Screech in the traditional sense of the word - dark rum of questionable origin and dubious quality, with a high alcohol content and a taste so rough that it will make the uninitiated screech in horror when they try it, much to the amusement of the locals who are used to it.
> 
> 3- Weapons! One of Saranel's early postings on Earth was in China, and she still has a clear preference for traditional Chinese weapons and martial arts. The jian is a double-edged straight sword. The tie shan is a good stealth weapon, a folding fan, traditionally made of steel or iron, sometimes with sharpened ribs. Sanctus, meanwhile, has definitely spent time with the Inuit, and has a preference for weapons that can double as hunting or fishing tools, such as spears, harpoons, and bows.
> 
> 4- In case anyone was wondering, Sanctus's animal form is a cormorant. Mostly because I like cormorants. The fact that Milton had Satan disguising himself as a cormorant to spy on Adam and Eve in the Garden is a coincidence. Really.
> 
> 5- At some point while I was trying to think of a title for this, I listened to North Easton's song "One More for the Road," and ... it kind of fit. So that's where the title comes from.


End file.
